


when you were a fever

by auconteur



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cops & Strippers, M/M, but mostly cops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 04:13:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11028423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auconteur/pseuds/auconteur
Summary: “I don’t think I should have kissed that stripper,” Otabek says later that night.or: Otabek goes undercover at the strip club where Yuri works.





	when you were a fever

**Author's Note:**

> written during a particular bout of madness; title is from u.r.a. fever by the kills

Three agents are supposed to go to Prix, a members only strip club. Katsuki and Chulanont were to sit in a van outside the club while Nikiforov, posing as a Bureau-invented hedge fund manager named Carlisle Parson, cozies up to Lydia and Deirdre Vitale—twin sisters, Prix’s co-owners, and suspected money launderers.

Otabek knows this because he had been the one to invent Carlisle Parson. Bank accounts, tax returns, IDs. He’d fabricated the whole package, and he distinctly recalls ordering a passport with Nikiforov’s photo and Parson’s name. But it’s his own photo that stares up at him from the pages of the passport that Nikiforov has just dropped onto his desk.

He looks up from a stack of case files to find both Katsuki and Nikiforov on the other side of his desk, smiling and blatantly wanting something.

“We’ve done our time undercover,” says Nikiforov. “But you, Otabek. You’re a baby.”

“No one knows your face,” Katsuki adds.

“You look more like a Carlisle than I do,” Nikiforov continues.

“It would be good field experience,” Katsuki says.

“And,” Chulanont calls from his own desk, halfway across the bull pen, “Victor doesn’t want to get a lap dance while Yuuri listens from the surveillance van.”

“That too,” Nikiforov readily admits.

At no point does anyone actually ask Otabek if he would be willing to go undercover in Nikiforov’s stead. He would’ve agreed if he had been asked. He’s relatively new to the Bureau, eager to work a big case, and he respects Nikiforov and Katsuki when he’s not busy being annoyed by them. Still, it would have been nice to be asked.

Nonetheless, an hour later, he’s dressed in a designer suit (seized from a tailor shop whose proprietors had dabbled in check washing) and pulling up to Prix in a silver Corvette (seized from a notorious gunrunner with a love of luxury cars). Otabek is also wearing a wire and an earpiece, the latter of which allows Katsuki and Nikiforov to continue talking at him from the back of the unmarked van on the other side of the street.

“Thanks for doing this, Otabek,” Katsuki says. “We really appreciate it.”

“Relax,” Nikiforov says. “Smile a little. Try to look like you’re enjoying yourself. This case is one of the fun ones.”

Otabek resists the urge to take out his earpiece, but just barely. He adjusts the glasses that complete his disguise and rolls his shoulders to assume the careless slouch of a shady white collar criminal before stepping out of the car, tossing the keys to a valet, and striding into Prix.

A hostess in a sleek red jumpsuit greets him at the door, recognizing him on sight as the newest card-carrying member of their exclusive establishment. As she leads him through the darkly lit club, towards a roped-off section of private VIP booths, she assures him the Vitale sisters will join him momentarily to properly welcome him to Prix.

“Please,” she says, parting the heavy curtain surrounding one of the booths to let him in. “Enjoy a drink and a show while you wait. On the house.”

“You’re doing great,” Nikiforov says in his ear once the hostess has left him alone in the booth. “The short, dark, and silent thing is really working for you.”

“Not that short,” Otabek says.

“I mean,” Katsuki says, punctuated by the distinct sound of him clapping a hand over his own mouth as though he hadn’t meant to say anything at all. After a beat, he continues, “Keep it up.”

Otabek wishes neither of them would say anything at all, even if they were trying to be encouraging. He doesn’t need to be coddled. This isn’t his first time undercover.

It is, however, his second. And he supposes the first time only sort of counts because he was undercover as a blackjack dealer for all of thirty minutes before local police swarmed the casino and arrested the card shark/tax evader/vigilante hacker the Bureau was investigating.

Still, the constant stream of encouragement is unnecessary. Especially since Nikiforov and Katsuki are clearly just trying to make up for dumping this case on him since they’re too married to get an extramarital lap dance.

And a lap dance _is_ inevitable. Intel says the Vitale sisters personally greet every new member, which will give an undercover agent the opportunity to get close to them and gather evidence on their money laundering operation. Intel also says the Vitale sisters never greet anyone without first comping them a bottle of Dom and a private dance.

The champagne is already there, sitting in a bucket of ice next to the long, curved couch dominating one side of the booth. Otabek pours himself a glass, drains it, then fills the glass again. His cover is not simply ‘hedge fund manager’, after all. It’s ‘sketchy hedge fund manager who likes a good time and may be interested in laundering some money’, and that means drinking the Dom.

He’s on a third glass by the time the curtains part again. In the dim blue light of the booth, Otabek can barely make out the face of the dancer who slips through—a guy, young and blond, in tight black pants, fingerless gloves, and a mesh crop top. He’s a tiny thing, short and slight. Otabek might have mistaken him for scrawny if not for the lean muscle cording his arms. Smudged black eyeliner rings his eyes, and his lips are bright and shiny with some gloss that looks like it’d taste sweet.

Otabek catches himself wanting to taste.

Must be the champagne.

“Hello, handsome,” says the dancer in a tone that may have passed as sultry to someone who hadn’t trained in reading microexpressions at Quantico.

Otabek, however, had. And he’s pretty sure he and the dancer both think that line is ridiculous. More likely than not, it’s something the guy has to recite to every customer before a private dance.

“You need to say something back,” Nikiforov says.

Otabek nearly jumps at the suddenness of the voice after several minutes of radio silence. He buys himself a moment to think of an appropriately sleazy response by raking his eyes over the dancer’s body, lingering on his exposed collarbone and his delicate wrists. He thinks he could wrap both those wrists in one hand, if he tried.

Finally, he sits back and says, “Come here.”

The dancer seems almost surprised, eyes widening a fraction of an inch for a fraction of a second.

“Nice,” Nikiforov says.

“Vitya, _shhh_ ,” Katsuki says.

The dancer has quickly schooled his expression back into a look that’s mostly seductive, but also a bit angry. He drops his gaze to a spot on the floor and strikes a pose, hips cocked and arms wrapped around himself.

A smoky track begins to play through the speakers on either side of the couch. The dancer moves his hips to the music and steps forward in time with the bass line. He skates his fingers down his throat, across his exposed midriff. His every move is fluid, designed to tantalize.

Otabek’s job is to watch like he’s into it. If he’s being honest with himself, it isn’t exactly a challenge.

He drinks in the performance with unwavering attention as the dancer sways closer and closer. The music is barely louder than the blood rushing through Otabek’s ears, and his fingers go so lax that he almost drops the champagne glass he’s holding when the dancer turns and, with a roll of his hips, grinds back against Otabek.

In a few minutes, when the Vitale sisters arrive, Otabek is meant to maneuver the conversation to a place where he can imply an interest in their money laundering services. It’ll take careful, deliberate wording. Otabek’s not so sure he’ll be able to form _any_ words in a few minutes.

At the second repetition of the chorus, the dancer turns again in one swift move and kneels on the couch, straddling Otabek’s legs and draping his arms over Otabek’s shoulders. He draws closer with every beat, until they’re almost pressed flush against each other, chest to chest.

Otabek is achingly hard, which the dancer can definitely feel. If he gets any closer, he’ll also feel the wire Otabek is wearing beneath his shirt.

When Otabek realizes this, it’s very nearly too late to do anything about it. He splays his free hand against the dancer’s side when there’s barely an inch left between them, holding him just firmly enough to keep him from closing the narrow gap between them. The dancer stills for a moment, perhaps suspicious. He doesn’t look like anyone’s ever stopped him from getting closer before.

 _Problem?_ his expression seems to say.

Otabek slides his palm up until his thumb is resting beneath the hem of the dancer’s crop top. He lets their eyes meet, lets heat fill his own gaze, and masks his attempt to keep a distance between them as an inability to resist touching that pale stretch of skin.

“What’s your name?” he asks, leaning in close enough to whisper in the dancer’s ear.

The dancer remains still for a moment before he breathes, “Yura.”

And then he’s moving again, dropping one hand to rest over Otabek’s. He presses Otabek’s palm hard against his skin and guides his hand up to his chest, beneath his top, then up further still. He leans back once Otabek is gripping his shoulder, legs folding beneath himself. He grinds his hips closer and drops his head lower, until his back is almost parallel to the floor, with only Otabek’s hand on his shoulder for support.

When the song ends, he swings himself upright like it’s easy, bringing his face so close to Otabek’s that their foreheads nearly touch. Otabek hears himself breathing hard and shallow, just like Yura. His hand is still on Yura’s shoulder, thumb pressed to the hollow of his throat.

The booth goes quiet, filled only by the sound of their breathing and muffled music from the main stage outside, but their eyes remain locked for a long moment.

“Fuck it,” Yura says, finally, before he kisses Otabek on the mouth.

Otabek slides his hand to the nape of Yura’s neck and kisses him back without hesitation. Yura slides his hands into Otabek’s hair and bites his lower lip, and Otabek licks into his mouth. They’re both panting when they separate, and Yura’s eyes are wide. He reels back and gets to his feet so fast that Otabek’s hand almost gets tangled up in the mesh of his shirt.

“Alright, uh,” Yura says, glancing over his shoulder at the heavy curtains he came through. “Bye.”

Then he’s gone, leaving Otabek hard and confused with mussed hair and kiss-slicked lips. And a job to do, says a voice in his head that sounds remarkably like Agent Nikiforov’s.

Fortunately, that kills his erection pretty quickly. By the time the Vitale sisters join him in the booth, he’s regained enough of his senses to talk them into thinking he has the sort of money they might like to launder.

 

“I don’t think I should have kissed that stripper,” Otabek says later that night. He’s at his apartment, in his kitchen, heating leftovers in the microwave while his roommate’s girlfriend works on her doctoral dissertation at the rickety kitchen table.

Isabella looks up from her laptop and blinks. “Come again?”

“I’m an FBI agent,” Otabek says, talking more to himself than anything else.

Isabella blinks again.

Otabek takes his leftovers into his room and stays up late reviewing case files and resolutely _not_ jerking off to the memory of Yura’s skin against his palm.

 

Despite having gotten the Vitale sisters on tape, engaging in a thinly veiled conversation about money laundering, Otabek gets to work the next day to learn that even thinly veiled is too veiled to make an arrest. Carlisle Parson will have to make another appearance, and since the Vitale sisters conduct all their business at their club, that appearance will have to be made at Prix.

“We need them to take money from you,” Nikiforov says. “Yakov has approved half a million for this operation. Get them to put our money in their account with the rest of the dirty cash they’re laundering, and we’ll have them.”

In theory, it’s a simple plan. Otabek laid the groundwork last night. As Parson, he’d practically told the Vitale sisters outright that he’s been skimming from his clients, and that the money is tied up in an account he can’t touch without the sisters’ help.

He just needs to convince them to bite.

“And try not to make out with any strippers,” Nikiforov adds, grinning. “Unless you really want to.”

Lydia Vitale calls him that afternoon to arrange another meeting. The sisters barely stuck around for fifteen minutes last night before they had to retire to their office for an urgent meeting with ‘some important business associates’, and Lydia promises on the phone that they’ll have more time to talk if Otabek drops by again that night.

And so, in a new confiscated suit, Otabek finds himself walking back into Prix a few hours later. The same hostess from the night before leads him to the VIP booths to once again wait for the Vitale sisters. Just like last time, there are a few glasses and a bottle of Dom on ice by the couch.

“Another dance, Mr. Parson?” the hostess asks.

Otabek hesitates. He doesn’t try to pretend that he didn’t scan the club earlier as he walked through, looking for a glimpse of blond hair or pale skin. But he was expecting a more straightforward meeting this time, without the pomp that’s always inflicted upon first time visitors. He hadn’t braced himself for another intimate performance.

“Go with it,” Nikiforov says in his ear. “You’re supposed to be an intense young man who loves champagne and strippers. You wouldn’t turn down a dance.”

“A different dancer, perhaps,” the hostess adds when Otabek doesn’t answer immediately.

“No,” he says. “The one from last night will be fine.”

The hostess takes her leave with a cordial smile, and it’s only a minute or so later that Yura slips in. He’s wearing silver this time. Shorts that do nothing to hide the shape of his ass, and a sheer tank top that looks like it would tear with the slightest tug. Even his smudged black eyeliner has been replaced by a neater ring of silver, tinted blue and purple in the right light.

“You’re back,” Yura says.

“I am,” Otabek agrees.

“You asked for me.”

“I did.”

Yura looks inexplicably angrier or more frustrated tonight, but he’s still the most beautiful person Otabek has ever seen. When the speakers start to blast a new song into the booth, Yura stays perfectly still for a few notes. Then he starts to move the way Otabek dreamt about last night.

By the end of the first verse, he’s climbed into Otabek’s lap. By the end of the second, he’s pulled off Otabek’s glasses and tossed them onto the couch. He cups Otabek’s face with both hands and tilts his head up for a kiss. They make out for the rest of the song, save for when they need to part for breath and when Otabek hauls Yura close to suck a livid mark into his collarbone.

At one point, Otabek thinks he hears Katsuki and Nikiforov sigh in unison in his ear. It nearly drags him back to reality until Yura squirms against him and bites down on his earlobe.

“Don’t ask for me again,” Yura whispers harshly before the song ends, before he detaches himself from Otabek and leaves again.

Otabek is still dazed when the Vitale sisters join him fifteen minutes later. According to the tapes, he managed to talk them into laundering five hundred thousand dollars for him for their usual ten percent cut. He also managed to set a time—tomorrow, midnight—for them to make the transfer. But that’s all according to the tapes.

He can’t remember much of the conversation with the sisters or the debriefing back at headquarters with Feltsman. His one clear memory of that night is the press of Yura’s teeth against his ear.

 

When he gets back to his apartment, Otabek barely has time to close the door behind himself before JJ thunders down the hall and asks, “Did you really kiss a stripper?”

Otabek makes a noncommittal sound and heads straight for the bathroom.

“Was she hot?” JJ asks, following him. “How big were her—”

Otabek shuts the door in his face, gets in the shower, and jerks off for all of two minutes before he comes with the low growl of Yura’s voice on loop in his ear.

 

Katsuki and Nikiforov are loitering around his desk when Otabek gets to work the next morning. Nikiforov is leaning against the desk while Katsuki stands next to him and refuses to make eye contact with either of them, so Otabek can be fairly certain they were doing something disgusting and romantic on or near his desk right before he walked in.

“We have something for you,” Nikiforov says with his usual grin. He steps aside to reveal a box on Otabek’s desk, open to display a black and silver watch.

“The sisters will probably scan you for bugs before the transaction tonight,” Katsuki explains. “They won’t do anything to incriminate themselves without some extra security.”

Nikiforov picks up the box and presents it to Katsuki like he would present an engagement ring, which is not a guess on Otabek’s part since Nikiforov had proposed to Katsuki in front of their entire department.

“There’s a mic in here that you can turn off when they scan you. Just press this—” Katsuki plucks the watch out of the box, making a valiant attempt not to blush at his husband’s antics, and taps a knob on the side of the watch. “—and press it again to turn it back on. You can also turn it off earlier. If you want. For any reason.”

“We don’t need to record you falling in love with a stripper,” Nikiforov says.

Chulanont steps off the elevator and into the office just in time to hear the last part of that sentence. His whole face lights up like he’s preparing to say something motivational about Otabek’s alleged feelings for a guy whose real name he might not even know.

Before Chulanont can start, Otabek excuses himself and escapes to the break room and makes himself a cup of coffee with the last coffee pod.

 

Otabek pulls up to Prix fifteen minutes before midnight, wearing a third suit and the chunky watch instead of a wire and an earpiece. For the third time, a hostess greets him and leads him to a VIP booth to wait. The Vitale sisters will be with him shortly, she says, once they’ve concluded a meeting with ‘some important business associates’.

It’s the second time someone has fed Otabek that exact phrase.

“They could have partners,” he murmurs as he pours a glass of champagne, just loud enough for the mic in his watch to pick up.

The Bureau has assumed thus far that the Vitale sisters are working alone, and that their various ‘business associates’ are other clients of their laundering business. But if they’re prioritizing these associates over Otabek, their newest client, there may well be something else going on.

Katsuki and Nikiforov can’t respond since Otabek is flying without an earpiece tonight, but he might not have heard them even if they could have answered in his ear. Because Yura chooses that moment to march through the curtains. He’s wearing the black outfit again, and he walks up to Otabek before the curtains have finished rustling back in place.

“Take off your pants,” Yura says without preamble.

Otabek clicks the crown of his watch and kills the mic as fast as physically possible, yet not fast enough that he won’t be hearing about this for the rest of his career. He may as well retire now and leave the country.

His mouth has gone dry, and his fingers twitch against the glass he’s holding.

“I didn’t ask for you,” he says.

“I know,” Yura says. He kicks one of Otabek’s feet, getting him to spread his knees wider, and takes another step forward to stand between Otabek’s legs. A song starts to play, and Yura takes the glass of champagne out of Otabek’s hand. He drains it fast, then tosses the glass aside. “Now take off your pants because I’m going to suck your dick and make you come before this song ends.”

Otabek isn’t about to do that for several reasons, most relating to his and Yura’s respective professions, but Yura is all determination today. When Otabek doesn’t move, Yura puts a knee on the couch between Otabek’s legs and presses his thigh flush against Otabek, with only the material of his own skin-tight pants and Otabek’s slacks between them. Otabek groans. His hands fly to Yura’s hips, gripping hard enough to leave faint imprints on his skin.

“Wait,” he says, clinging to the last vestiges of self-restraint. “I have a meeting with your bosses.”

“They’re going to miss it,” Yura says. He drags a hand down the front of Otabek’s shirt, ripping out two buttons as he does. “And they’re not my bosses.”

He doesn’t give Otabek a chance to parse what that could possibly mean before he drags Otabek to the edge of the couch and drops to kneel on the floor between Otabek’s legs. With his hands at Otabek’s belt, he looks up, pupils blown, and says, “Say yes.”

“Yeah,” Otabek breathes. “Yes.”

Yura whips off his belt with an audible snap and unbuttons his slacks with deft fingers. He runs his knuckles over Otabek’s erection before cupping him through his boxer briefs. Otabek drops his head back with a shallow groan, and Yura drags down his waistband to expose his cock. He gets his mouth around Otabek like he’s been dying for it, licking the head of his cock just once before swallowing him down.

Otabek swears, low and drawn-out, and hisses when Yura wraps a gloved hand around the base of his cock. The pliant leather of the fingerless gloves and the softer glide of Yura’s skin create a contrast in friction that makes Otabek writhe. He slides a hand into Yura’s hair and holds on like he’s falling.

Yura makes a sound around him, the pulls back with a growl. There’s not enough skin to skin contact for him, apparently, because he brings a hand to his mouth and tears off one of his gloves with his teeth. Otabek catches Yura’s other hand and brings it to his own mouth. He ghosts a kiss against the inside of Yura’s wrist before taking the cuff of his glove between his teeth and yanking it up and off.

A sharp, needy sound punches free from Yura’s throat. He looks at Otabek like Otabek’s the best thing he’s ever laid eyes on, and Otabek knows he’s got the same expression on his own face.

Yura tugs his wrist out of Otabek’s hold and instead grabs both of Otabek’s hands, guiding them back into his hair. Otabek tenses his grip, fingers curled in those soft, long strands, as Yura takes him into his mouth again, working his balls and the base of his cock with his newly freed hands.

It doesn’t take long. Yura’s practiced and enthusiastic, again and again taking Otabek down deep enough to gag. He pulls back without pulling off, keeping the head of Otabek’s cock in his mouth, on his tongue. Otabek’s fingers spasm in his hair, and he can’t help fucking up into Yura’s mouth in short, desperate thrusts.

The song’s still going when Otabek comes so hard he thinks he hears gunshots. He sucks in a ragged breath and hauls Yura back into his lap, gripping Yura’s nape with one hand and getting Yura’s pants open with his other. He gets his hand around Yura and starts to jack him off as they kiss. Yura whines against his mouth and bucks into his hand—just a few times, then he’s coming too, painting his own chest and Otabek’s shirt.

They’re both breathing hard and clinging to each other as they kiss again, and when the song finally ends, Otabek thinks he hears gunshots again.

Actual gunshots. And the distinctive sounds of people in a panic. Not auditory figments of an extraordinary orgasm.

He jerks back, tense and ready to spring to his feet, but Yura shoves him back against the couch, hard.

“Don’t move,” Yura says. Then he’s standing, zipping himself up, and running out of the booth, straight towards the gunshots.

Otabek stays stunned for all of three seconds, which is three seconds too long for an FBI agent. He straightens himself out as quickly as he can and bolts out after Yura, just in time to see a team of Interpol agents escorting the Vitale sisters and three other men out of the back room in cuffs and at gunpoint.

One of the agents tosses Yura an oversized jacket that reads _INTERPOL_ across the back. Yura shrugs it on, and one of the other agents passes him a badge and a holstered gun. The people in the club’s main rooms have almost all fled through the front doors by the time Otabek’s backup storms in, led by Katsuki and Nikiforov.

Katsuki is the first to spot Otabek across the club. He brings Otabek a ballistic vest with _FBI_ printed across the chest, which Otabek puts on without thinking about it. He looks up from strapping himself in to find Yura staring at him from a distance, looking exactly as surprised as Otabek feels.

 

It turns out the Vitale sisters were strip club owners, money launderers, _and_ human traffickers whose ‘important business associates’ were fellow human traffickers. While the FBI investigated them for money laundering, Interpol has been running their own investigation on the sisters’ trafficking operation.

The whole debacle results in a jurisdictional nightmare and a debriefing that lasts sixteen hours. Neither agency was aware of the other’s investigation, so Otabek has to recount his involvement in the case to the Interpol team, then to his team, and then to the Interpol team again. He also has to sit through Interpol’s reciprocal explanation of their investigation, which involved Agent Yuri Plisetsky going undercover at Prix as a stripper.

At some point, Feltsman takes pity on Otabek and lets him escape to his desk to change into a shirt that doesn’t reek of sex. Otabek all but runs out of the conference room, back into the bull pen.

Only to find Yuri Plisetsky sitting in his chair, both feet propped up on his desk, wearing one of Otabek’s spare shirts beneath his own Interpol jacket. Otabek stops in front of him, on the other side of his desk, and fails to think of a single thing to say.

They stare at each other for a long moment until Chulanont, the only other agent not holed up in the conference room arguing over jurisdiction, announces loudly and pointedly that he’s leaving the office to find decent coffee and won’t be back for at least fifteen minutes.

“Was kissing me part of your cover?” Otabek asks, finally.

“No,” Yuri says without pause. “Was letting me blow you part of yours?”

“No.”

They fall silent again, and for a while the only sound around them is the muffled sound of Feltsman shouting about interagency communication and misconduct, loudly enough to bleed through the walls of the conference room.

Otabek scrubs a hand over his face. “Then why did you kiss me?”

“You’re hot,” Yuri says simply, stating it like a fact.

“Why did you tell me not to ask for you again?”

“You’re _really_ hot,” Yuri says. He pulls a face, sticking his tongue out, before he takes his feet off Otabek’s desk and sits up properly. “I had a job to do, and you come in looking like—” He gestures wildly at Otabek. “—and saying shit like ‘ _come here_ ’ in that—” He gestures again. “—voice of yours, and how’s anyone supposed to do their job when _you’re_ around?”

Otabek is pretty sure he should be flattered, but if these are compliments, they’re the angriest compliments he’s ever received.

“You ask too many questions,” Yuri grumbles a second later.

“Just one more,” Otabek says. “Are you going to let me take you out to dinner?”

“Hell no,” Yuri says. He gets up, grabs Otabek’s keys, and chucks them across the desk at Otabek’s chest. “But you can take me home and fuck me like I’ve been wanting you to since we met.”

When he gets a chance, Otabek is going to have to ask Yuri exactly where he learned to talk like that. But Yuri wraps his arms around Otabek from behind, plasters himself to Otabek’s back, and kisses and bites at his neck as they take the elevator down to the ground floor, so Otabek suspects it’ll be a good long while before he’s coherent enough to ask any other questions.

Then again, there’s really not much else he needs to know besides what sounds Yuri will make when Otabek pins him to his sheets.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on [tumblr](https://auconteur.tumblr.com/)!


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